Playing to the Gods

by Melanie Rawn

  The Queen’s Right glinted from Henick’s fingers. Rather plain compared to the King’s Crown, it was made of a hundred links of gold and silver, thumbnail-sized plaques without jewels. Draped on the shoulders of a Fae Queen, would it suddenly come to life?

  “What do you plan to do with that?” Cade asked when he could find his voice again. “It would look nice on Miriuzca.”

  “If not her, under my control, it can be a goad to the Fae.”

  He glanced around the white marble room, with all those blood-red words piled on the floor. “You do realize that we’re in the middle of a Dancing Ground?”

  Another smile.

  Cade gathered his thoughts. “It’s always struck me as thoroughly unoriginal, having the villain explain himself towards the end of the play. But as long as you’re talking, you might as well tell me—”

  “Villain? I’m not the villain!” He seemed genuinely shocked, and deeply offended. “None of this is for myself! It was never because I want to command ‘Do this’ and ‘Do that’ and see it happen on the instant!”

  “That’s what they all say,” Cade remarked.

  Henick seemed to gather himself, settle his outrage. “I’m not telling you this because you’re going to die. I’m not telling you because it’s safe to explain because the knowledge will do you no good.” He moved his hand slightly, to make the Carkanet sway and shimmer again at his fingertips. “I’m telling you so that you’ll understand. Because you’re going to live. And serve me. And like it.”

  “Again, no.”

  “This land needs stability. Continuity. No more wars, or the idiotic political maneuverings that come within a breath of war. No more risking the ascension of morons like Meredan or wastrels like Ashgar. Can you seriously see him as King? No more religious squabbles—surely the most asinine reason for killing ever invented. Who cares which of the Old Gods or the Lord or the Lady or any of a thousand different Angels is worshipped or not?”

  “They might,” Cade mused. “But I’m not here for a discussion on theology. What I want to know…” He paused as if to find the words he wanted. He knew them exactly, of course. But he wanted this insanely arrogant man to listen. “I want to know what gives you the right. Who pointed to you and gave you permission? Or did you just choose yourself because nobody was there to tell you different?”

  “My father,” said the Archduke, “was a fool. He wanted it all whilst he was still young. From my earliest childhood I was told that I would have to wait. And I was content to do so. To be patient. To watch and plan things that would take years to accomplish. Because I alone can fix it.” He pooled the Carkanet in his palm. “Do you know that chamber in Castle Eyot, the one with all the timepieces?”

  Cade nodded. The room that whirred and clicked and chimed and rang every hour on the hour—reminding all who heard the noise that another hour was gone, irretrievably gone.

  “Piercehand has clocks … but I will have time.”

  Making a face of polite interest, he waited for more. If his career as a playwright had taught him anything, it was that from people like this, there was always more.

  “Other men, lesser men, simply cannot wait. My father could not. ‘First, win,’ they told them. ‘Then reap your reward.’ He came close to winning, you know, and they made the mistake of giving him what he wanted. Did you ever wonder why the gyves on his wrists were made of silver?”

  The question seemed to have nothing to do with anything.

  Except that it had to do with everything.

  “The histories say,” Cade said slowly, “to show how rich the King still was, even after so many years of war.”

  “And no one thought to ask why, if he was so wealthy, the gyves weren’t made of gold.” The Archduke snorted. “As if a ruler earns the right to rule based on how large a pile of coins he can shovel together.”

  Cade became aware that he was hardly breathing, and consciously pulled in a lungful of air. “Your father was executed by decapitation.”

  Emmot’s voice came from nowhere. “I told you he was a smart lad.”

  “If so,” Henick drawled, “why is he standing here?”

  Cade wanted to ask the old man how he had known about the Elsewhens when Cade was still so young. He wanted to ask if Emmot had worked with Cade’s grandmother, Lady Kiritin, to make withies that exploded and maimed and killed. Who was the generous donor who had paid for Cayden’s education? Had Emmot always known that Cade would become a tregetour? Stupid questions, all of them, the answers mattering to no one but himself.

  Emmot asked a question instead. “Tell me, Cayden, did you ever think of what you could have been?”

  “Of course he didn’t,” the Archduke interrupted. “If I’d been born with a hundredth part of what he was born with—”

  “Content, are you,” the Sagemaster went on, “to fritter away all that power telling ridiculous stories and making pretty scenes, and showing people how they ought to think and feel?”

  Cade addressed Henick, giving a little shrug. “It’s a living.”

  “You never considered that you could make your stories real. That the scenes could be real. That instead of nudging an audience to feel a certain way or to think a certain thing, you could have changed the way they think and feel permanently. You could have created order and meaning out of the chaotic meaningless clutter all around you. And you could have changed it forever.”

  “You were the one who always told me I couldn’t make other people’s choices for them.”

  “I hoped that eventually you’d understand that most people are idiots who don’t know what’s best for them. Your Elf is a case in point. All the disasters he visited upon himself—you could have stopped them. You could have prevented them. I thought that sooner or later you would see that his emotional calamities were detrimental to Touchstone, and your pride in your work would cause you to make the decisions for him. When it became clear that you actually cared for him, I realized that because of that caring, you would do what you had to in order to save him from himself.”

  “That’s not caring for someone. That’s controlling them.”

  “For their own good. Precisely. As Albeyn itself will be controlled. Stability demands it.”

  “No,” Cade said. “No. That isn’t how life ought to be. People have to learn on their own—it isn’t love, forcing someone to change into what you think he should be. You have to let people be who they are. Otherwise—it’s like painting a white marble statue. It doesn’t change what the statue really is. It just makes it look like something it’s not.”

  “How many people,” Emmot challenged, “make stupid decisions—like your Elf!—and disrupt the lives of all around them? Impose rational order on such persons, and everyone benefits.”

  “He’ll not be persuaded,” the Archduke said suddenly. “Why are you still trying to convince him? By tomorrow, it won’t matter.” The shining rivulet of silver and glass slid from hand to hand.

  “Mind telling me how you managed to get the Queen’s Right?” Cade asked. Then, realizing the obvious: “Master Emmot is part Fae. And related somehow to the Oakapple family.”

  “Perhaps you were right after all, Emmot. He does have possibilities. Perhaps, given enough time, he might even work out how we got away before the Sentinels came.”

  “You didn’t try it on. Briuly Blackpath put the King’s Right on his own head,” Cade said promptly, like a schoolboy trying to impress his teachers.

  “Inspired! Truly inspired!” Henick sneered. Tucking the Carkanet into a jacket pocket, he pushed himself to his feet. No, he did not look at all well. Sweat seeded his brow, and his lips were tinged blue. He didn’t look anything like a man who had time.

  “So what’s the plan?” Cade inquired, striving for a tone of voice that expressed impersonal interest. He didn’t achieve it. Henick snorted his opinion and Cade tried again, more successfully this time—although he really didn’t have half a fucking clue what he was talking about. “One of
your ancestors was one of the original Knights, I get that. And another of them provided a castle for them to hide in when they were no longer needed. You’re not interested in having the Caitiffs resume their role of servitude.” Suddenly he knew. “After all,” he went on, his voice steady although his heartbeats were suddenly so quick, they almost choked him, “why bother with a few dozen slaves when you can have a whole Kingdom?”

  Pale eyebrows arched in an exaggeration of surprise. “Oh, surely not a whole Kingdom! Just selected portions of it.”

  “Including most of the important government officials, a bunch of justiciars, some nobles, and the ambassadors of a dozen or so countries. And the King. Tell me, do you plan to make Miriuzca a widow for your own convenience?”

  “That rather depends on how cooperative she’s willing to be. It seems someone’s protecting her. I must say, I didn’t suspect her of Caitiff magic.”

  “How did Black Lightning find any to practice on?” Cade snapped his fingers in a deliberately overdone gesture. “Of course—a few must still linger on the Continent, to be served up for their education.” He looked around, but he and the Archduke were the only ones in the room—except for Thierin, whom Cade had forgotten until now. The tregetour was looking a bit strained around the eyes. “Fun, was it?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Only the three of them. He wanted to bring the fourth out into the open, but he didn’t know how. “Tell me, Emmot,” he said, addressing the Sagemaster without his title for the first time in his life, “when did you get the notion of using a group of players to suborn a whole Kingdom?”

  “Enough!” Henick snarled.

  Cade ignored him. “Exactly how furious were you and your boy, here, when Touchstone wouldn’t play along? Smarted, didn’t it, when you had to settle for something considerably less than the best?”

  “Go fuck yourself sideways, Silversun,” Knottinger invited. “You’re there and I’m here. That tells me who’s the best.”

  “But Quill’s the one they want to keep alive,” said Mieka, and Cade spun on one heel to see his Elf standing this side of the shimmering curtain, a sword in his hand. Shining steel, inlaid with silver along the blade, with a purple amethyst in the hilt to match the jewel on his finger, he held the weapon with assurance and easy grace. “And that tells me who’s the most important!”

  Chapter 41

  Everyone knew that Henick wanted Cayden alive. He had no fears for himself. He was safe enough. But Mieka—

  Cade didn’t know whether to be more proud or horrified. Trust that fool of an Elf to charge right on in without a by-your-leave, holding a withie magicked to seem every inch a real sword. It was so insanely like him, to match the amethyst in his ring to the amethysts in the hilt. Hells, he’d probably start a new fashion.

  Just how real was this magic, anyways? Illusion only, the kind they used onstage? The clothes Mieka had worn strolling into the Lilyleaves office years ago—bits of feather fluff had drifted to the floor from his fan, vanishing with those ridiculous flounces. But Cade had known that if he’d put out a hand to touch, he would have felt silk, feathers, lace. Hawk’s Claw had tonight given the audience the feel of something shiny and smooth in the hand. Combine that with the sight of a sword …

  As with all things magical, it was belief that really mattered.

  “Weren’t you wondering when I’d show up?” Mieka went on, taking a few steps towards Cade. “I mean, you knew I’d be here eventually, right?” He glanced over at Thierin, who seemed to be gagging on his own tongue. “Pirro’s a bit winded by now, y’know. You’d best toddle off and give him some help.”

  “What—how—you—”

  “Were you always this articulate, or is it something they teach at tregetour school?”

  “Mieka,” Cade managed, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Mieka—” It came out as a warning, which made the Elf smile.

  “With you in half a tick, old thing.” He walked towards Knottinger, his steps more precise, his body tensing, his lips unsmiling. Those eyes were deep blue with flecks of green, with gold sparks of anger. “You’re owed something for Yazz,” he said quietly.

  “You can fuck off, too,” Thierin informed him.

  “Articulate, eloquent, and original! How will Albeyn ever survive without you?”

  As he came within sword’s reach, he assumed a challenging stance. Cade recognized it, not so much from watching Mieka practice as from years of seeing Jeska’s work onstage; fencing lessons were part of a masquer’s training, to prevent any real swordsmen in the audience from laughing themselves silly.

  Thierin Knottinger had not gone to masquer’s school. He gave it a good try. The withie in his hand took on the look of a sword, two feet of gleaming steel. He knew how to do that much, at least. A tiny smile curved Mieka’s lips as he advanced. A swipe to the top half of Knottinger’s sword went right through it—for there was naught but illusion to slice through. Thierin stumbled back a few steps, white-faced with panic, and yelled Pirro’s name. Mieka danced lightly in, the tip of his sword prodding contemptuously at Thierin’s arm. He reacted as if well and truly perforated. Real or not, magic or not, he believed in that sword.

  Mieka toyed with him for a moment or two, waiting for something. The sword in Thierin’s hand blurred, indicating a faltering connection between the magic he was putting into the withie and the magic he was using as a glisker would to make it seem like a sword. Mieka lunged close, and in a move Cade had never seen Jeska use—and which would probably have had Master Flickerblade shrieking in outrage—swung his sword two-handed. The sword became a withie, gripped in a hand no longer attached to a wrist.

  Screams were obscured by the crash of shattering glass. The room vanished, and the hallways of doors, leaving them all onstage behind the glittering curtain—which showed a long gash over to the left. Cade almost lost his balance as the floor of the white marble room disappeared beneath his feet. It hadn’t been real, he knew it hadn’t been real—but then he also knew that the sword in Mieka’s hand, stained now with Thierin’s blood, couldn’t possibly be real, either.

  Thierin believed it was real.

  Sagemaster Emmot emerged from a shadow near the wooden wall at the back of the stage. He wore a neat, spotless robe of dark blue, the hem concealing his feet, the cowl up around his hairless head, the sleeves long enough to hide all of his hands but the fingertips. He looked exactly the same as when Cade had left the Academy ten years ago. Exactly the same.

  “I had a feeling it would turn out to be him,” Mieka said. Cade frankly gaped at him, and he explained, “Great Welkin, when you and His Grace over there had your little talk a few years ago.” When Cade didn’t react, he continued impatiently, “Me in the ballroom, him in the minstrels gallery, tossing spells down at me? And it was him in the cellar outside New Halt, too. Feeding off us and the Shadowshapers and everybody else.” Turning to face the hooded figure, he asked, “How’s it feel, knowing that you educated the man who’ll destroy you?”

  “That remains to be seen, little Elf.”

  Thierin was on his knees, clutching his arm, crying in a rhythmic whine. The Archduke snapped, “Somebody shut him up!”

  “Quill, you have to do something about all this.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. It couldn’t be any other way. I’ll explain later. But it’s yours to choose how you deal with it. If I may, a little advice?”

  Cade waved a helpless hand, inviting him to continue.

  “Well,” Mieka began, but at that precise moment light and darkness coalesced and became a hideous yellow vodabeist, clawed hooves pawing the stage and leaving long scars in the wood.

  Instinct caused Cade to grip the withie in his hand and retaliate. He conjured up two Fae hounds, huge and black and ugly. They sprang from the shadows and sank their fangs into the vodabiest’s throat. It shrieked and the battle was joined.

  A dragon, more grotesque than any Cade and Mieka had ever conjured, for
med from a million glittering lights scattered through the magic. Wings spread and head rearing back, it spewed fire up into the empty night sky—where there was no resistance, no curtain of magic, nothing but air. Cade flatly refused to believe that the fire was real—but he countered with ice anyway, sheets of it molding around the outstretched crimson wings and rearing head. It froze, toppled with a thud that shattered the ice tinkling onto the stage, and vanished. For a moment there was respite.

  “This isn’t how, Quill.”

  He was too busy to reply. Emmot gestured broadly, and sparkles of colored light slammed together. Another monster appeared, this one a massive snake, so big as it slowly reared back that it was physically sickening. Worse, it had five heads, each with malevolent red eyes and a mouth decorated with gleaming fangs as long as Cayden’s arm.

  Once more Lost Withies provided the answer. A Hydra was a huge beast, and stupid with it; after all, it wasn’t as if its five brains (or more, because if you cut off one head, more grew in its place) were on speaking terms with one another. Cade didn’t even have to adjust the magic in the withie very much. In Window Wall, one of the scenes outside the glass was of a flock of birds. He conjured them now and sent them flitting and chirping around the Hydra’s heads. Thick, slimy green necks strained in all directions, jaws snapping, eyes frantic to find the sweet little singing blackbirds. It didn’t take long for the Hydra to tie itself in knots and fall over, strangling to death.

  As it winked out of existence, Cade heard Mieka laughing. “Where’d you get that one?”

  “Your book,” he said. Just for Mieka, he sent the birds hurtling around in a perfect circle. “‘Sir Riddou and the Great Dizzydumb’ was the name of the play. Just a description, no lines or cues or anything—”

  He broke off and they both lost their grins as the blackbirds squawked, each hit by a separate bolt of black lightning. Feathers fluttered to the ground and the birds disappeared, and Master Emmot chuckled. Cade turned in time to see him tuck his thumbless hands back into his sleeves.

  Mieka sighed quietly. “Nothing I’d like more than to have that sort of fun all night, Quill, but eventually he’ll put together something you won’t know how to counter.”